


Ia-Besz

by Pseudothyrum



Series: The Discoverie of Witchcraft [2]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, The Question (Comics)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Demons, Gen, Hub City remains a terrible city, Possession, Satanism, Thelema, magick, that's how you know it's serious, that's right magick with a k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 04:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone had asked him even a day before, Question would have claimed that he had no interest in ever working with John Constantine again. This was, of course, before the satanists came crawling out of the woodwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ia-Besz

**Author's Note:**

> This was not supposed to turn into a series. Oops.

Question had promised himself he would never use the number again. He had almost been on the point of deleting it out of his phone several times, but something kept holding him back. “What if?” whispered an irritatingly British voice in the back of his head, “What if?”

 

And now here he is, at six in the morning, crouched behind a stack of boxes in alleyway, frantically scrolling through his contacts list looking for the name. Holding the phone to his ear he checks over the top of the boxes quickly, making sure that nobody has noticed the light of the screen. After a long, tense wait, the line connects.

 

“Wargharbl?” says the voice on the other end, eloquently.

 

“Constantine,” he hisses, checking over the top of the boxes as several gunshots ring out in quick succession- he just can’t be sure if they’re related to the situation at hand or not- “ _please_ tell me you are sober right now.” Constantine makes an indignant noise.

 

“Oi, it’s-” he can hear the other man checking the time and date on his phone, “It’s six in the bloody morning on a Tuesday. What do you take me for?” Question doesn’t answer, which Constantine seems to take as answer enough. He can hear the man lighting a cigarette.

 

“So, faceless, to what do I owe the distinct displeasure of being awoken at six in the bloody morning on a Tuesday?” At that moment Question hears a scuffling at the entrance of the alley. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment with dread, he slowly peeks over the boxes again. It’s them. Shit. He gabbles out an address in a hurried whisper, ignoring Constantine’s questions and grumbling

 

“Hurry,” he breathes, and leaps desperately into action.

 

***

 

Two hours later Constantine is breaking into a fairly nice apartment building in what he assumes to be a nice part of the city-- it isn’t currently on fire, at any rate, and he wasn’t accosted by even a single mugger on his way up the stairs, which seems to rank it head and shoulders above every other part he’s seen of it. Question didn’t pick up when he tried to call him back, and Constantine has been getting an itching feeling in between his shoulder blades that tells him something very, very not good is on the horizon. The magic of Hub City, which thrums along every street and oozes out of every dilapidated building, is all off-kilter. It’s always been a dark energy, but now it feels... angry.

 

When he finally gets through the door of what he assumes to be the Question’s flat, he lets out a low whistle as he looks around in fascinated horror.

 

“Mate, how can you _live_ here?” he asks, raising his voice slightly so it carries through the whole flat, “it’s so... so _clean._ ” He inspects the nearby surfaces (freshly dusted! How does the man even have time?!), before registering that the feeling of wrongness has intensified.

 

“Oi, Faceless,” he calls cautiously, stepping into the disgustingly tasteful living room.

“Hrrnk,” says the pile of clothes that are lying crumpled just under the open window on the opposite side of the couch. A suspiciously bloody pile of clothes, which stirs feebly as Constantine hurries over.

 

“Bloody hell, Question, what’ve you gotten yourself into this time?” Question doesn’t answer, only lets out a rattling, painful-sounding breath and paws feebly at his blank face.

 

“You want the mask off?” Question moves his head and torso, it might be a nod or a shake, Constantine can’t be sure, but he takes it for assent and begins trying to find the mask’s edge, before remembering a night a long time ago, in an Aztec cult’s basement.

 

“There’s a gas or something, right?” he asks. Question does that head-twitch-shoulder-wiggle thing again, and Constantine fumbles around with his belt, searching for a hidden catch or button. When the strange gas is suddenly released he falls back startled, swatting at the smoke and coughing. When it clears Question is still lying on his back, but his clothes and hair have changed colour, and there is a clear seam around the edge of his face. Cautiously, he peels the false skin off and drops it on the floor in disgust—it feels distressingly like real skin. Then he catches sight of Question’s face, and he falls flat on his arse again.

 

“Jesus Christ, Question, Jesus Christ!”

 

***

 

Question has been in and out of consciousness since the alleyway, and if he wants to be completely honest with himself he’d have to admit that he’d greatly prefer to be out of it. He is vaguely aware of Constantine speaking and moving around him, of Constantine removing his mask. Every inch of his body hurts, a burning, prickling pain. His eyes are clouded over, as though he’s looking through a dark screen that he can’t blink away. Since Constantine removed his mask all he’s been able to do is stir feebly and try to track Constantine’s movements as he scurries frantically around the apartment looking for god knows what, muttering under his breath the entire time. There’s a... a whispering, in the back of his mind, like an itch he can’t quite reach to scratch. He tries to speak, but his mouth will not open.

 

Suddenly, without warning, he finds he is on his feet, although he doesn’t recall standing. Constantine, who had been setting up several candles, cautiously sets the one in his hand down and rises, hands held before him as if he is trying to placate him. Question tries to reassure him, to ask what is happening, but his body lurches forward against his will. Constantine just barely manages to escape what Question’s mind dimly registers was an attempted killing blow. Desperately he tries to wrest control of his body from whatever is holding him, and he staggers off to the side in the middle of lunging at Constantine again. Constantine is saying something, shouting maybe, but all Question can hear is the dull roar of the whispering in the back of his mind. Not whispering anymore. Shouting, shrieking. A language he doesn’t understand. It wants him to kill. He wants to kill. But... he should not. Should he? He doesn’t know why he shouldn’t. His mouth opens, and he thinks he might be speaking, but he doesn’t hear it and he doesn’t know what he is saying. He thinks he might have struck Constantine, but he can’t feel his hands. He feels himself dwindling. There is only the voice. A voice he shouldn’t listen to, he thinks, but every thought feels more and more as though it is struggling to rise above smothering waves. He tries to remember, to find his center. He grounds himself. He breathes.

 

Without a warning he is on his knees, retching. A bowl slides into view just in time to catch a pitch-black liquid that pours from his mouth. There is a sudden onrush of sensation, the veil that was over his eyes is gone and he can hear Constantine chanting something under his breath. He falls back on his heels, just in time to avoid having his eyebrows singed off by the black goo spontaneously catching fire. Shivering, he looks up at Constantine, who has blood on his teeth when he grins a feral grin.

 

“Never a dull moment with you, is there, Faceless?”

 

***

 

Constantine sits awkwardly on the couch, drumming his fingers on his knees while he waits for Question to get out of the shower. All things considered, he’s taking his first partial possession pretty well, and Constantine is suitably impressed. After a few reassurances from Constantine that possessions were perfectly natural, yes, they happen to everyone, and it's definitely nothing to be ashamed of, Question had wandered off to scrub the black bile and alley grime off of himself, leaving Constantine to stare blankly at his bookshelves. He doesn’t even have a television, what kind of wanker doesn’t have a television in this day and age?

 

“The TV’s in my bedroom,” Question says, startling Constantine out of his reverie. He holds up his hand before Constantine can more than open his mouth in confusion.

 

“Everybody always asks about the TV,” he flops down into the armchair across from the sofa, “but I’m really more interested in talking about that time I got possessed by a demon and then threw up a bunch of black goo? I admit, I’m a little biased.”

 

“Right,” Constantine fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his coat and begins to pat himself down for a lighter. At Question’s pointed glare and increasingly pointed tsking, he moves to stand next to the window as he lights his first cigarette, ignoring Question’s triumphant grin.

 

“Probably not really a demon, since you got out from under it too easily. Just going by what happened here it’s hard to say who or what we’re dealing with. What kicked this whole mess off?” Grin fading, Question leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his loose, still-damp hair.

 

“I was trying to track down some evidence that the mayor is in the pocket of Big Ice Cream-” Question doesn’t pause or even acknowledge Constantine’s snort of disbelief- “and I was passing through one of the abandoned buildings downtown,” Question very ostentatiously ignores Constantine’s muttered question about what buildings downtown _aren’t_ abandoned, “when I saw some flickering lights in one of them. I thought maybe it was just a routine fire, but when I went in there were all these people in black robes wearing... I think they were supposed to be goat masks? They looked homemade, and frankly I wouldn’t hire them to make a costume anytime soon--”

 

“Yeah, like your getup is some original work of art,” Question glares balefully at him, but Constantine doesn’t bother to hide his grin.

 

“ _Anyways_ , one of them was saying something about blood and bread? I don’t know, she cut her arm and then put a little wafer on it and then ate the wafer, which seemed unnecessarily gross. Around then they noticed me, and the scary one sitting in the big fancy chair sent them all running after me. That’s when I called you, and they caught up to me in an alley, and the scary one, he... he was talking but I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. And then I broke away from them and ran here, I think. It’s all a bit of a blur.” Constantine nods, considering.

 

“This scary bloke, what’d he look like, then?” Question’s brow furrows in concentration.

 

“It’s like there was a... a shadow all around him. Sort of like that guy out in Opal, except the shadow wasn’t doing anything, it just made everything seem darker around him, like the light wasn’t quite touching him.” Question doesn’t quite manage to suppress a shudder, and Constantine can’t blame him.

 

“A Black Brother,” he says, nodding sagely, “an Adeptus Exemptus 7=4, he tried to cross the Abyss but resisted during the Ordeal.” Question stares at him, brow furrowed and mouth slightly agape. Constantine tries again, “They’re practicing a kind of magick-with-a-k, but their leader held onto his ego and fear rather than entering service to a higher being.” Question shakes his head slightly, expression still gratifyingly confused. “A spooky wizard tried to do spooky magick but it went bad and broke him, and then he broke everyone else.” Question nods slowly.

 

“Right. Okay. Sure. This all sounds both reasonable and sane, and I am perfectly at peace with this happening in my life.” He sighs resignedly, and looks at Constantine expectantly “So, what do we do about this?” Constantine shrugs.

 

“Really, the masks tell us everything we need to know.”

 

“That their papier-mâché skills are simply not up to snuff?”

 

“Nah, that they’re Satanists, luv, total bloody amateurs the lot of them, just making things up as they go along half the time. One of them managed to almost cross the Abyss, and he’ll have to be destroyed, but the rest of ‘em’ll put up about as much fight as any other rebellious teenager in a stupid costume.”

 

“Have you been to Gotham lately?” Question asks, rubbing his jaw as if at some remembered injury, “Those kids don’t mess around.”

 

***

 

Question sits on the floor in front of the couch and tries to meditate while John Constantine bustles around his apartment, making entirely too much noise as he clatters through cupboards searching for mysterious tools to destroy a Black Brother. Normally noise and movement are no impediment for him, but he can’t seem to get his mind to settle. Every time he almost succeeds John Constantine comes crashing back in, all brashness and bleach-blond hair. It’s very frustrating. He breathes. Finally, he lets go.

 

He comes back to awareness of his physical body some time later to feel a cool line of moisture trickling down the side of his face and a light, cold pressure on the top of his head. He can hear Constantine shuffling papers behind him and to his left, feel Constantine’s shin pressed against his upper arm.

 

“Constantine,” he says without opening his eyes, feeling a drop of liquid run off the end of his nose.

 

“Huh?” says Constantine vaguely.

 

“Did you put a drink on my head while I was meditating?” he asks, still not opening his eyes. Suddenly the pressure on his head is gone.

 

“’Course not, mate. What d’you take me for?” His voice is all wounded innocence, and Question snorts as he finally opens his eyes and runs a quick hand through his condensation-dampened hair to shake the worst of the water out.

 

“Right, that’s believable.” He squints at the window, where it looks like the sun has almost set. “How long was I out for?” Constantine shrugs.

 

“Most of the day. Hope you don’t mind, I had a bit of a kip in your bed, seeing as you woke me up at an actually ungodly time this time around. And mark my words,” he says as Question opens his mouth to protest, “we _will_ be discussing the frankly disturbing amount of Blue Beetle memorabilia you keep in there.” Question scowls, but there’s no heat in it.

 

“It’s a perfectly reasonable amount of Blue Beetle memorabilia,” he mutters petulantly under his breath.

 

***

 

It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise to Constantine that the magick wannabes have moved on from the warehouse where Question had last seen them, but it doesn’t make having to investigate from square one any less bloody annoying. Question is busy scurrying around the building examining various objects while Constantine stands in the centre of what had probably once been their altar, smoking a cigarette. He stares at the scorch marks on the floor, and something about this whole thing feels... off. He knows there’s more to this. If he can only figure out how—

 

“What are you looking at?” says a voice right next to his ear.

 

“Jesus bloody Christ!” Constantine definitely does not shout, nor does he leap a foot in the air and almost fall over, nope, it’s all extremely dignified, “there’s no bloody need to sneak up on me, you arsehole,” he says, in a completely dignified manner. He glares at Question, who he can just tell is laughing at him behind the mask. Prick.

 

“I found this list of container ship arrivals, but I think it’s unrelated, unless Kasnian insulated wire plays a central role in magic-with-a-k.” Constantine can tell Question is mentally spelling it without the k to be spiteful, he can just tell. “I also found this key to a storage locker downtown. It’s well known around town for being the place where the owner doesn’t ask whether you’re storing people in your unit or not.”

 

“Why would... why would that be a thing that he is known for? Why is that so common that someone would be known for that?!” But Question is already walking away, pocketing the shipping schedule with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other. Sighing resignedly, Constantine flicks his cigarette butt to the ground and follows.

 

***

 

Question leads Constantine through the predominantly fire-lit streets, fending off the occasional mugger while Constantine slouches along behind him, smoking and making snarky comments. Question has become very good at tuning him out. It’s not like Hub City is that bad, he thinks, as he tosses a knife-wielding mugger down a nearby alleyway and leads Constantine out onto the street in front of the storage facility.

 

“This is it here,” he says, gesturing towards the nondescript building, which is currently glowing a bruised reddish-black colour and emitting a dull, deep throbbing sound that makes his teeth rattle, “it’s usually less... spooky.”

 

“Right,” Constantine says, squaring his shoulders, and leading the way across the street “let’s go in there and see if we can’t ruin somebody’s day.” Constantine immediately sets to work on the lock on one of the doors, cursing under his breath when the throbbing vibration of the building judders his lock picks loose. Rolling his eyes behind his mask, Question picks up a nearby piece of debris and chucks it through the window, shattering it.

 

“Well, that’s subtle,” Constantine grumbles, shoving his picks into a pocket of his coat.

 

“You’re just mad because you didn’t think of it,” Question says, but Constantine is busy stepping gingerly through the gaping hole in the window into the pitch-black interior of the building, and doesn’t bother to respond, which Question takes for acknowledgement. He follows, turning on the flashlight function on his phone as he does. Despite the pulsing still audible through the window, the interior of the building is strangely quiet, the air seeming too still, hanging around them like a shroud. Somewhere, in the distance, Question can hear voices. He starts that way, feet crunching on broken glass, and Constantine catches his arm, pulling him to a halt.

 

“Slowly and carefully, right?” Constantine says, not letting go of his arm. Question nods and, releasing him, Constantine follows him as he moves towards the chanting.

 

It doesn’t take long to find the source of the noise- it’s so easy it almost feels like he’s being drawn there- until finally they are standing in a hallway that is bathed in the flickering candlelight being cast through the open door from whence the chanting reverberates. Gesturing at Question to press himself against the wall, Constantine sidles along the wall until he can peek through the door.

 

“Oh, bloody hell,” says Constantine, backing away from the door, “oh bloody, bloody hell.”

 

“What is it?” Question asks worriedly, “What’s the matter?”

 

“That isn’t just a Black Brother. We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here right bloody now. I can’t let it--” He snatches Question’s arm to drag him away towards the outside world, but just as he does a horrible, alien voice booms through the room.

 

“Do not try to flee. You will not escape.” Peering into the darkness, Question sees two goat-masked figures advancing on them from the hallway they had just come down, both wielding wicked-looking spears.

 

“Brilliant,” says Constantine, “bloody brilliant.”

 

***

 

They are marched together at spear-point out into the large room that the cult is occupying. Perhaps a dozen cultists stand stiffly in their sad little robes and goat masks, trying very hard to look intimidating and serious. Constantine would laugh if one of them weren’t poking their spear just a little too eagerly into his back. Besides, the seated figure that they are all grouped around is no laughing matter.  

 

Still roughly humanoid in shape, the grotesque creature looks as though someone tried to cram a very large and angry insect into a poorly constructed human suit. Too many lopsided eyes glitter through the ruined flesh of its face, its mouth a clicking mess of overlong, sharp teeth and mandibles. Its human skin bulges oddly, undulating over ridges and bony protrusions which have not yet managed to tear through, while the tears reveal a slick, black flesh underneath, with the occasional spine jutting at random all over its body. It waves its twisted, ruined hands at its disciples, beckoning them to bring Constantine and Question closer. Each hand has too many fingers, some of them scythe-like pincers. Beside him Question makes an involuntary retching noise. Constantine can’t blame him.

 

“John Constantine,” says the twisted man, breath coming raggedly through the melting, bubbling flesh of its jaw, “I know you.”

 

“What.” says Question flatly. Constantine squints his eyes and tilts his head, considering.

 

“No offence mate, but I’m sure I’d remember a face like that.” The creature jerks its head back, its many eyes glittering insect-like in the candlelight, and laughs, a wrenching, wet sound.

 

“I did not wear this guise when we met,” it says running too many fingers over its ruined face, a stray claw catching and tearing a new gash in the flesh that it does not seem to register, “But I remember you. There is much talk of you in Hell. You have made many enemies.” Constantine snorts despite himself.

 

“Yeah, and look where it got them. Sent to bloody Hell, weren’t they?” The creature clicks its mandibles irritably.

 

“Yes, they told me of your hubris,” it says, “And many of them spoke of where it leads. How you sacrifice those around you.” It turns its eyes on Question, who stares back without flinching. “Will you turn on this one, too, when things become too difficult?” Question does not turn to look at Constantine, but Constantine can practically feel him itching to.

 

“You think pretty highly of yourself there, mate,” Constantine says, mustering up all the bluster he can, “how do you know we don’t already have a plan to banish you back to where you came from?”

 

“Hmm,” says the creature doubtfully, turning its many glittering eyes back on Question, “This one still has my mark on him. Did you think you could get rid of me so easily?” Question suddenly collapses to his knees, fingers scrabbling uselessly at his masked face. He makes a choking, gasping sound as he pitches over onto his side. The creature laughs, a high, insane sound, as Constantine falls to his knees beside the writhing Question. He puts a palm on Question’s forehead.

 

“Hold on,” he whispers.   


***

 

Question feels like he is drowning. Drowning but still perfectly aware. He can feel the demon working its way into his mind, seizing control of his body, but leaving his mind untouched. He wonders idly if the demon is letting him stay awake and aware to hurt him, or to hurt Constantine. His body bucks and contorts painfully, and he tries to speak, to beg Constantine to help. His mouth will not open.

 

“Your faceless friend is strong, Constantine. Would you like to see me break him?” the demon asks.

 

“Not bloody likely,” Constantine spits at the demon, applying sudden pressure to the hand on Question’s forehead, pinning him down. “Trust me,” he whispers, for Question’s ears only. Choking, gasping, his body furiously trying to writhe free, Question is only a little surprised to find that he does trust Constantine, despite what the demon had said earlier. Closing his eyes, he tries to shut out the external world except for Constantine’s cool, reassuring hand on his forehead.

 

Without warning he feels as though he is burning up from the inside, as though someone has poured molten metal down his throat. His focus shatters, and he becomes aware of the world around him again. He screams, some detached part of his mind registers that he is allowed to scream, and that the demon is screaming too. Question can hear it shrieking, and his rolling eyes take in the chaos around them as the cultists swarm, attempting to batter at the magical shield that he and Constantine are surrounded by, a little eye of calm in the centre of the storm. Through it all Constantine keeps his hand firmly on Question’s head, keeps speaking, reciting something that Question doesn’t have the strength to try to recognize.

 

As quickly as it began it is over, and Question lies panting on the floor as the demon’s shrieks cut off with a nasty squelching sound. The cultists, seeing whatever had happened to it, immediately abandon their assaults on the magical bubble and scatter. Constantine finally takes his hand away from Question’s forehead, lingering a moment to brush his disarrayed hair back into place.

 

“He’s gone, luv,” Constantine says.

 

“Took you long enough,” Question says weakly.

 

“Bite me,” Constantine snaps, but there is no heat in it.

 

“Can’t,” Question says, pointing at his blank face, “no mouth.”

 

“Oh, do you not have a mouth? I hadn’t noticed. I just wish you’d said something, maybe mentioned it once or twice.” Question laughs as he pulls himself up into a sitting position using Constantine’s arm. All around them is in disarray; a few terrible goat masks lie abandoned and forlorn. There is a scorch mark on the chair where the demon had sat, the only indication that it had been there. Question can’t help but feel relieved at the lack of weird demon gore.

 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Question says, looking back at Constantine, “but what the _hell_ just happened here?” Constantine shrugs.

 

“Your guess is as good as mine, luv. Well,” he casts an appraising, sidelong look at Question, “my guess is probably a sight better.” He ignores Question’s cry of indignation, and shrugs again, “My guess? A demon attached itself to the poor bugger when he tried to cross the Abyss, got dragged back here with him, went mad from the strain, and decided to rule the world or whatever it is demons want these days.” He waves his hand vaguely in the air, as though about to pull the elusive goals out of nowhere. “Anyways, I did a little exorcism, just a few verses, a pair of white gloves, a hand on your head, and you’re right as rain, 100% demon-free”

 

“White gloves?” Question asks, as Constantine strips them off his hands and slips them into his pocket, “It was lucky that you had those on you.” Constantine shrugs.

 

“I picked some up while you were meditating, figured I’d need them.” Ice suddenly runs down Question’s spine, but he’s sure he’s misunderstanding.

 

“Constantine, you didn’t even try to get to the demon to exorcize it.” Constantine does not look at him, very determinedly does not look at him, and takes a drag on his cigarette. “Constantine, did you... did you let it possess me again? Did you _plan_ it that way?” Question doesn’t need Constantine’s nod of affirmation, his mulishly unapologetic expression, to know. His stomach is clenching as though it is held in a vise, and there is a rushing sound in his ears. He feels so, so angry, suddenly. So much angrier than he should feel, a dim and distant part of him recognizes. He finds he is balling his fists, and he releases them, forces himself to relax.

 

“Right,” he says, and he is proud of how steady his voice is, “right, that was... good plan.” Constantine regards him warily for a moment, but seems to find what he is looking for.

 

“Good,” Constantine smiles his brightest, most winning smile, but his eyes stay wary, “so, luv--” Something inside Question snaps, suddenly and without warning.

 

“Go to hell, Constantine.” He presses a button on his belt, and as the swirling mist rises to cover him he turns and walks away. He doesn’t know where he is going, just that he needs to be away. He can hear Constantine calling his name, his real name, but he does not look back.

 

***

 

Constantine stands in the same place in the warehouse until the mist clears. He had known, as soon as the mist had engulfed Question, that there was no use calling for him, but he had done it anyways. He stands, and he smokes, and when the mist dissipates and he is alone, save for the detritus of another magical threat defeated, he sighs and takes another drag on his cigarette, and tells himself it was all worth it.

 


End file.
